The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland

By George Pattullo

"The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland" by George Pattullo. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 4064066207670

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George Pattullo

The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland

Published by Good Press, 2022

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EAN 4064066207670

Table of Contents

THE SHERIFF OF BADGER

CHAPTER I

LAFE JOHNSON ARRIVES AT THE LAZY L RANCH

CHAPTER II

CERTAIN COMPLICATIONS RESULT

She and Johnson rode together every day.

CHAPTER III

CONCERNING A BABY'S WAIL

CHAPTER IV

OUT OF A JOB

CHAPTER V

AN INCIPIENT LOVE AFFAIR

CHAPTER VI

DISCOMFITURE OF A GUNFIGHTER

CHAPTER VII

JOHNSON IS ELECTED SHERIFF OF BADGER

CHAPTER VIII

A FEUD AND WHAT CAME OF IT

CHAPTER IX

AN INQUEST AND A SURPRISE

CHAPTER X

A JOURNEY TO SATAN'S KINGDOM

CHAPTER XI

A WAITRESS TO THE RESCUE

CHAPTER XII

THE SHERIFF SETTLES A CONJUGAL DISPUTE

CHAPTER XIII

AND HETTY COMES TO BADGER TO LIVE

CHAPTER XIV

THE SHERIFF ENSNARED

CHAPTER XV

HOW HE WON A WIFE

CHAPTER XVI

THE GUNFIGHTER RETURNS AND DELAYS WEDDING

CHAPTER XVII

JOHNSON MEETS A FRIEND OF HETTY'S

CHAPTER XVIII

A SACRIFICE AND ITS PUNISHMENT

CHAPTER XIX

BUFFALO JIM GIVES WISE COUNSEL

CHAPTER XX

THE SHERIFF PURGES TOWN OF BADGER

CHAPTER XXI

A FIGHT IN THE DARK

As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed him a letter.

CHAPTER XXII

CAPTURE OF MOFFATT, THE GUNMAN

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WEDDING

CHAPTER XXIV

THE BRIDE IS LOST

CHAPTER XXV

JOHNSON BECOMES BOSS OF THE ANVIL

CHAPTER XXVI

ENTERS TROUBLE

CHAPTER XXVII

A CLEVER WOMAN AND A MISUNDERSTANDING

CHAPTER XXVIII

RECONCILIATION—MRS. VINING EXPERIENCES A CHANGE OF HEART

CHAPTER XXIX

LAFE HELPS A DESERTER

CHAPTER XXX

AND DISCOVERS HETTY'S BROTHER

CHAPTER XXXI

GREAT EXPECTATIONS IN JOHNSON FAMILY

CHAPTER XXXII

BIRTH OF LAFE JOHNSON, JR.

CHAPTER XXXIII

JOHNSON ONCE MORE IN ROLE OF SHERIFF

CHAPTER XXXIV

HE ARRESTS A SUSPECT

CHAPTER XXXV

THE DEATH DICE

CHAPTER XXXVI

RESPONSIBILITY SITS HEAVILY ON LAFE

CHAPTER XXXVII

BUT THE BOSS AGAIN PROVES HIS METTLE

CHAPTER XXXVIII

HOW A MOFFATT HENCHMAN WAS OUSTED

CHAPTER XXXIX

NEWS FROM BUFFALO JIM

CHAPTER XL

HE ARRIVES TO VISIT THE JOHNSONS

CHAPTER XLI

A NIGHT RIDE AND DEATH OF BUFFALO JIM

CHAPTER XLII

MIDDLE LIFE

CHAPTER XLIII

MOFFATT ONCE MORE

CHAPTER XLIV

THE DUEL IN THE MALPAIS

So now Lafe, Jr., flattened out in his fissure in equal danger with his father.

CHAPTER XLV

THE END

THE SHERIFF OF BADGER

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CHAPTER I

Table of Contents

LAFE JOHNSON ARRIVES AT THE LAZY L RANCH

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It may come as a shock to many to learn that we have in cowland a considerable number of full-blooded men who have never made it a practice to step outside the door of a morning and shoot a fellow-citizen before breakfast. This is true; vital statistics and fiction to the contrary, notwithstanding. They are well-grown, two-fisted men, also, and work very hard seven days in the week, and whenever they go to town they get drunk. But in the main they are law-abiding, and steal calves only for their employers.

There was Lafe Johnson. This story has him for its central figure.

It's right queer about men, Lafe used to say, when in a reflective mood. A feller will knock in a friend what he'd be like to do himself. And he'll act mean one day so he's sure ashamed of it the next. Yes, sir; the best of 'em will. It all depends on how a man feels, I reckon, and what shape his stomach's in. No man ain't always going to do the right thing, and I've never met a feller yet who was all bad. What's more, nobody thinks he's bad, or I expect he wouldn't be. Don't you reckon? Why, a man'll be plucky one day and the next morning he'd cry if a jackrabbit was to slap him in the face.

Lafe started man's estate as a cowboy. What his antecedents were I don't know and don't care, nor did anybody else in our country. We have so many more important matters to engage us. Punching cattle happened to be his profession. In every other respect Lafe was a normal individual—no better than you or I, and assuredly no worse. Some thought he was worse, and among them a Mrs. Tracey—or she pretended to—who thought that and a few other things besides. That was why Mrs. Floyd, just before Johnson departed the ranch, insisted that he accompany her to the Tracey home in Rowdy Cañon.

I'll tell her to her face what I think, she said.

Lafe tried to pacify her.

I ain't much of a fighter, ma'am, he said. You'd better go alone and have it out. Miz Tracey, she's got me scared off the map right now.

You'll come, too! Mrs. Floyd assured him, pulling on her gauntlets.

This is what Mrs. Floyd said, sitting her horse in front of the Tracey gate, her erstwhile friend being on the veranda: I've heard the stories you've been spreading about me, Tracey!

Stories? Gracious, what's got into you, Sally? I never mentioned your name! Do you reckon I've got nothing better to talk about?

Don't lie, Mrs. Floyd continued, her voice rising. You know what I mean. And I've got Mr. Johnson with me to hear it, too. You keep your mouth shut about me—do you hear? If you don't, I'll shut it for you. I'm right proud and glad to know Lafe Johnson—he's a friend of my husband, too—and—and—

She had much more to impart, having rehearsed it mentally on the way over in order to be effective, but here rage and tears choked speech. Perhaps it was as well; finical people may even find something to deplore in what Mrs. Floyd did say. Mrs. Tracey answered, tucking her chin into her neck, that she was very, very glad to hear it, but, for herself, she must confess complete inability to discover any grounds for pride in Mr. Johnson's acquaintance. Upon which she slammed the door.

Now, I wonder if that lady meant something? Lafe murmured gently.

That was forever the way. People were never indifferent to Johnson. They either swore by him or execrated his name, which ought to be held to his credit. A man's virtues must be negative if he make no enemies.

Here is the story of Lafe's advent in our part of the world—merely the facts, and not the tale Mrs. Tracey spread. No man will blame him, and let those of her sex judge Mrs. Floyd who have never erred a hair's breadth. We will then consider the jury.

The Lazy L outfit was loading a train with cattle—ones and twos, graded stuff and some bulls—when Johnson first appeared. He arrived on a freight, presumably. It is my belief he was heading back for Texas on the bumpers of an eastbound that passed. It stopped for water and he dropped off when he perceived us shipping.

Forty yearlings had been manhandled and heaved into a car, and one old bull was added which would eventually visit eastern parts in tins. Perhaps the range monarch had some suspicion of this, for he turned round to walk out. They yelled, and prodded at his neck and ribs with poles, but the bull shook his head in settled determination and started down the chute. If he gained the crowding pen, where more yearlings and another bull waited, there would be a fight and a lot of mussing and long delay. The boss danced up and down, swearing like a moss-trooper.

Bar the chute! Bar the chute! he yelled from the top of the corral fence.

Ere the poles could be thrust in, a seedy individual stepped down directly in front of the giant Hereford and began to lash him furiously over the face with a rope.

Come out of there! You'll get killed. Come out! cried the boss.

The bull bellowed with rage, but the sting of the blows forced his head up. Blood trickled down his nose, and there were livid wales above the eyes. One lurch forward and this man would be crushed, but the rope cut fiercely and without pause, and the bull began to back. The stranger did not let up, but drove him into the car with savage recklessness.

What the Sam Hill are you, anyhow? said the boss, straddling the fence. A circus or a town cowboy?

Now, a town cowboy is a term of reproach among us, signifying a young man who never did range work, but wears the clothes and does trick roping for the delectation of visitors. Ultimately he joins a Wild West show and instructs the rising generation.

I reckon you're cleverer than me, Johnson said, but you ain't awake to me yet. Turn over. You're on your back.

Without concerning himself further about the boss, he clambered out on to the platform and threw the borrowed rope to Reb. We saw that he was tall and big of bone, and his shoulders had an indolent droop. Although he could not have been over twenty-five, his hair was plentifully flecked with gray.

Presently Buffalo Jim, who was keeping tally of the cattle going through the chute, lost count and admitted frankly that he could not say whether there were thirty-seven or forty in the car. He tried to appear grave in confessing this, but was unable to repress a snigger. Everything would have gone smoothly, he contended, had he not chanced to recall a story Uncle Hi Millet had told him the previous night.

If that feller could count up to fifty, said Johnson, in an aside to the buyer, he would be back in Texas still, a-teaching school.

Hello, Lafe! the other exclaimed. Where did you drop from? Want a job? Seventy a month?

Eighty.

No, sir; seventy.

Eighty. I got a lot of unfinished business down the line unless.

Have it your own way. Eighty it is. Fly at it.

Johnson replaced Buffalo Jim and sat on a board between two posts, dangling his legs, staring at everything but the plunging steers. Yet he never once failed to tally.

The boss's wife rode up to the corrals. With her was Mrs. Tracey.

Who's them there ladies? Lafe whispered to a cowboy who wielded a prodpole.

That pretty one's Miz Floyd. I cain't rightly see the other. Oh, yes. Shore. She's a widow woman—owns a flock of mines way up in them mountains.

The pretty one's the one I meant, said Lafe.

We sealed the door of the last car, and a brakeman waved to the engineer to pull forward. The buyer grabbed Lafe by the shoulder and jabbered instructions into his ear. Then he caught the caboose rail as it sped by, and Johnson informed the amazed Floyd that he had been commissioned to receive the other herds when gathered.

And he don't even know your name? Oh, he does? All the same, that's sure rushing it. Glad to do business with you, anyhow. I want you to be acquainted with my wife. Shake hands with Mr. Johnson, Sally.

Mrs. Floyd came down the platform, striding like a man. She was wearing a divided skirt, very useful-looking spurs on her high-heeled boots, and a man's felt hat. All the cowboys stopped work to eye her. She was only twenty-two and had an amazingly trim figure. With that meaningless smile of polite welcome with which a woman greets her husband's friends, Mrs. Floyd drew off a glove to give Johnson her hand.

Lafe Johnson! Lafe! she squealed. And with that she was pumping the big fellow's arm up and down, her cheeks red with excitement.

Why, it's li'l Sally!

I take it you two know each other, said her husband mildly.

Do we? Why, we were raised together, Tom. Lafe was one of my best beaux. Weren't you, Lafe?

Ain't got over it yet, said Lafe.

The widow put in a reminder that she was on earth by a furtive pull at Mrs. Floyd's sleeve. Lafe said, Pleased to meet you, ma'am, very correctly, and shook hands. After the hand shake he looked at Mrs. Tracey again, with a new interest. The boss shouted for his horse. He could never be idle a minute.

Let's go home. Reb, give Johnson your horse and double up with one of the boys. I'm sure getting hungry.

Laughing and indulging in horse-play, the Lazy L men set out. Mrs. Tracey paired off with Floyd and took especial pains to lead him well in advance. There would have been nothing in this maneuver but for her manner of executing it.

What does she mean by that? said Sally hotly.

Who? What?

The way she went off there. Didn't you see her? You'd think we—oh, I don't know how to say it.

I reckon this lady knows her way about, ma'am?

She's awfully nice, Lafe. Really she is. When we're alone, I love her. But sometimes, when men are around—well, you saw how she acted.

Sure, said Lafe, in his soft bass, and he grinned at her. It ain't what she does, but it's what she don't do. That smile she smothers, now—

Have you noticed that, too? Tom did, very first thing. He doesn't like her.

Johnson asked her of her marriage and how it had come about. It was five years since he had seen her, wasn't it? Mrs. Floyd said four, and he murmured that it seemed longer. She laughed, but was pleased, nevertheless. As they rode, she studied him without disguise, and remarked that the gray in his hair was an improvement. He was dressed very poorly, and his boots were down at the heel and worn through the soles, but she did not appear to notice their plight and he suffered no confusion therefrom. Twice she detected him looking from her to Tom, loping in the van.

What're you thinking about? she said.

Nothing much. Ideas don't get much of a hold on me. There ain't nothing to grip.

I know—I can see it in your face. It's mean of you, Lafe, just because he's forty and—and—well, he's the truest and best—

Hold on there. Pull up! He was chuckling. Abruptly sober: Sure, I'll bet he's got a kind heart.

She glared at him for an instant. Then they both exploded into laughter and she shook her horse into a gallop.

You're just the same old Lafe. Nothing'll ever sober you, she called over her shoulder. Remember—I'm a married woman, Lafe Johnson.

I won't forget it if you don't, ma'am, he said amiably, upon which she gave him a fearfully stern look and giggled.

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CHAPTER II

Table of Contents

CERTAIN COMPLICATIONS RESULT

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Many authorities assert that a man's looks count for nothing in the pursuit of women and the game of love. And they seem to have the rights of the matter. Citations can be had in plenty. Take the case of the Lazy L boss. Floyd was not unlike an amiable gorilla. Well over the two-score mark in years, he rambled somewhat in his shape. In the first place, his shoulders were too broad for his height, and his jaw and mouth were entirely too wide. Moreover, his legs had the liveliest scorn one for the other. The boss always compelled interest and respect, it is true; but so does a bulldog. Yet he owned the Lazy L and all its herds; he had the prettiest wife in the country, and there were those who said she adored him; and he had a son and heir, two years old. All of which set Lafe to marveling over the inscrutable contrivings of Providence.

It was seven miles from the shipping pens to the ranch, another seven to the Tracey home. Consequently the widow stayed to supper, though it meant enduring Floyd's cold scrutiny for an hour of chat. The boss was civil to her in a heavy, formal way, bestowing sidelong looks when he was persuaded she could not see him. However, there was a full moon and it would fall to Johnson to take her home. She was a persevering woman.

Floyd presented himself to his wife on the second day and said, in his usual blunt style: Sally, better be decent to that fellow Johnson. Will you?

Why, sure, Tom. What's got into your head now?

Some of this last bunch of cattle are awful poor stuff. Where the tarnation Reb picked up these brindles and swaybacks and old, hipped long-horns beats me. Lafe will cut 'em all back. He'll just go through that herd like a prairie fire. So keep him in a good humor, Sally, will you? Is it a go?

Tom, you're dreadful. Do you think I'll help you cheat Mr. Horne by flirting with Lafe? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Floyd.

Who asked you to flirt? I've seen you mighty handy with them eyes of yours on other fellows, without being asked, he said good-humoredly.

Oh, what a lie, Tom! I won't. Remember, I won't.

But, being a good wife, she did.

Autumn was rattling the dry bones of summer, and she and Johnson rode together every day. A keen southwest wind swirled the dead grass and leaves about their horses' feet. He would listen to her chatter by the hour, watching the pink grow in her cheeks. Lafe was very good-humored, indeed. With the improvement in his circumstances had come a marked improvement in appearance. He had imported what is known as a hand-me-down suit at the cost of a week's pay, and he took a pardonable pride in it, for the reason that the tailors expressly stated in their advertising that they catered only to gentlemen of refined tastes. Also, he had done some trafficking with Buffalo Jim, thereby obtaining a pair of whole boots.

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She and Johnson rode together every day.

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Often he spent hours with the baby Tommy, fashioning him ridiculous playthings, and tumbling on the ground for the child's delectation. And Sally gloated over Mrs. Tracey, who scarcely saw Lafe at all. Mrs. Floyd looked not an hour over eighteen.

Twice she brought Johnson up short.

Now, Lafe, none of that. I won't listen.

Let us disregard the fruits of our experience and believe that Mrs. Floyd did not perceive what was growing in Johnson during those two weeks of companionship, although we may be convinced that even a stupid woman can sense it a mile off; and Mrs. Floyd was clever. But she would not give ear to her own doubts.

That widow won't get him, anyhow, she said, standing in front of a mirror. She could not resist giving her hips an approving pat, and she smiled.

One evening, as they sat on the veranda, Lafe put up a forefinger languidly and touched a stray curl. She dashed his hand away.

It's just as black and silky as ever, he said.

Perhaps. But you keep your hands off! Do you hear? Then she added: There's no gray in it, anyhow.

Just for whom this shaft was meant will ever remain a profound mystery. Both Lafe and Mrs. Tracey had gray in their hair. That night Sally was demonstrative with Floyd, hanging over the back of his chair with her hands locked under his chin and her face snuggling against the top of his head. The boss blew clouds of smoke and seemed gently amused. These manifestations of devotion had become frequent of late, but it should not be hastily inferred that because Lafe was a spectator they were done for his benefit. That could not be, because he took them with such extraordinary fortitude. If he was harassed, Johnson stifled all expression of his condition grandly.

Floyd was much away from home. Sometimes he was in the south, buying stock cattle. Again, he went north and east to sell of his herds. Sally told Lafe that he left her alone too much. Lafe coughed and said something unintelligible, and lighted a cigarette.

What did you say? she asked sharply.

When a feller is getting old and ain't got long to live—

You quit that kind of talk right now. I won't stand for it.

It was the first time she had been really angry at any of his frequent sallies concerning Floyd, and it put them at once on a different